by Sylvie Kurtz
The pink of anger flushed her cheeks. Her eyes shone like the polished Apache Tears his sister Aimee had kept in her rock collection.
"Then I'll have my father's legal tweezers remove you. Leave me alone, Lieutenant Sloan. I don't know anything that can help you, and I'm not planning on taking any trips down memory lane for your benefit."
"But you do know something," he whispered into her ear as he came to a stop next to her. Her shoulders flinched up in instinctive reaction. "As a matter of fact, I think you know everything. In here." He touched her temple and found the cool skin even softer than he'd expected. He let his finger linger for a moment before he drew it back. "And you see, it's just not in my nature to let an injustice go unpunished."
He switched to her other side with one smooth motion. She held her ground, though the tense lines of her body betrayed her desire to run.
"An innocent woman died, Miss Amery. Your neighbor. A twenty-two-year-old girl. I imagine she'd probably been in your garden countless times, sniffing all those pretty flowers you have there. Who could resist such a lovely sight? And someone slashed her to death. Someone took a knife, jabbed her repeatedly with it, and left her to bleed to death on her living room floor—"
"Stop it!" The mop clanged to the floor. Melinda clamped her hands over her ears, but didn't budge from her spot on the wet wood floor.
"That's just it, Miss Amery. I can't."
He switched sides again, just to keep her off balance—the way a good cop should—and noticed the quiver of silk over the sensual rise of her breasts. The ravenous craving of hunter for prey intensified. He wanted her with such a strong fierceness, he had to draw back. If he didn't, he'd lose what little instincts he could trust.
"I won't be able to sleep until Angela's murderer is behind bars, Miss Amery." He drew closer, his lips a hair's breath away from her creamy skin. "Will you?"
* * *
She hated him, Melinda decided. Hated the guilt he piled on top of the fear. Hated the way his voice floated around her, soft and strong, insinuating itself on her psyche like fingers of mist around the moon on a cool fall night. She didn't need this. Not now. She'd already missed a good part of a work day, during the busiest part of the year, and there was too much to do to get the Christmas catalog out on deadline to waste time.
The sooner she got rid of this annoying police officer, the better. "If I show you what you want, will you go away and leave me alone?"
"That depends on what you give me."
His blue eyes were trained on her. She didn't like the feeling of being studied, of being classified and judged. He made her feel as if she were a piece of evidence, and she didn't like the idea one bit.
The intensity of his gaze sent her nerves haywire with awareness of him—of his clean male scent, of the power coiled in his lean body. She'd been brought up to respect authority implicitly. But Lieutenant Sloan with his piercing blue eyes and his intriguing face didn't inspire respect; he inspired something baser, something she didn't want to contemplate in the least. That much intensity was much too frightening.
Like a bomb on the verge of exploding, the fabric of her intentions strained. She hated September. Maybe it was because September should mean fall and cool weather, and in this part of North Texas, the temperature still burned unbearably hot. Maybe it was the pressure of putting the Christmas catalog for her gardening mail-order business together before the end of the month. Or maybe it was simple paranoia. September seemed to catch her holding her breath, waiting for something awful to happen.
And this year it had.
And she was right in the middle of it.
And Lieutenant Sloan's piercing gaze promised he wouldn't relent until he'd explored all of her deep, dark secrets.
"You have everything on tape," she said, proud her voice didn't betray her inner turmoil. "What more do you want?"
His face cracked into a wolfish grin, displaying the utter charm his dimples could have. "I want you... to show me the path you took last night."
He paused after the "you" long enough to shaft a shudder through her. She groaned inwardly at the faux pas of leaving herself open to his gutter interpretation, at her instant and powerful arousal. She moved away from him with a jerky, stiff-legged gait.
"I went out through these doors because the noise of the rain on the roof was driving me crazy."
"Why does it do that?"
His breath felt hot against the back of her head. Apprehension snaked through her. "I don't know. It just does." She walked across the patio to the white wrought iron table. "I picked up my sketchpad because it was getting wet."
Her body shook at the memory of the crazed lightning zigzagging across the sky, of the thunder rumbling like a warning across the countryside, of the trees swaying like bleached ghosts in an eerie dance lit by strobe-like flashes of light. She'd known she wouldn't find solace in her haven that night.
"I was going to watch the ducks float on the pond," she said. She didn't mention the panic, the immediate need to feel wide-open spaces, that had launched her into the dark night.
She stepped outside onto the stones arranged in a curving pathway to the front of the house. She could still feel the rain stinging her skin through the gauzy layers of her clothes, and how the nettling had reassured her she was still alive and not in some sort of hell.
"I went out this door and to the front." Melinda swung open the chain-link fence gate she'd painted black. She left the rough stone path and walked onto the grass. The spiky blades prickled the soles of her still-bare feet. "I cut across Lena's yard and Angela's yard."
As she stepped with purpose onto Angela's yard, anguish crushed around her. Memories threatened to seep through the fine cracks Lieutenant Sloan chiseled with his piercing gaze and his unnerving silence. She edged them back firmly, knowing instinctively nothing good would come from remembering.
Without knowing quite why, she stopped in front of the big picture window in front of Angela's house, bringing her hands to her chest as if to hold her heart inside her body. Yellow police tape crackled in the breeze. Undeniable now the fact that this was real after all, not just a nightmare. Her blood seemed to run cold, chilling her, and goose bumps raced up her arms.
Lieutenant Sloan's hot breath caressed her ear. "What did you see in the window?"
A flash burst through her mind. She startled. Like a slide on a projector, the scene burst forward, every detail sharp, then faded to black.
Mouth wide open, she froze.
"What did you see?" he asked again, more insistent this time.
Her scream of terror iced and shattered inside her. The picture blinked against another faded one. Primitive survival instincts kicked in, flooding her body with adrenaline. Her rapid breaths matched the hammering of her heart. Hide! She had to hide.
Strong hands held her shoulders. She couldn't move.
"It's okay." His voice soothed her. "You're all right." Little by little Lieutenant Sloan's insistent voice tamped back the terror to the dark corner from which it had erupted.
He turned her around and pinned her with the mesmerizing blue of his eyes. His voice gentled. "What did you see?"
She broke their visual connection, concentrating on the blades of Bermuda grass at her feet. The brief vision was gone, and she had no intentions of stirring it up again. "Nothing. I saw nothing."
"Then how come you're so scared?"
She didn't know. She didn't want to know.
Melinda twisted away from his grasp and headed toward the wood shed. "I guess this is where you found me. It's not very clear in my mind. Whenever I try to picture you last night, all I see is a strange blob. After that everything goes fuzzy."
"We can try again later."
She pivoted back to face him. "No, we can't. I've been cooperative. You promised you would leave me alone."
"I said, it depended on what you gave me. I don't have what I need."
Hands on hips, she flung her cresting anger at him. "Then, Lieutena
nt Sloan, I suggest you do what my tax dollars pay you to do." One hand left her hip and pointed vaguely to someplace away from Laurel Court. "Get out there and find the person who killed Angela. Whatever you may think of me, I'm not the one who committed this crime. Why are you wasting your time with me?"
"Waste?" Lieutenant Sloan crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to one side. "The problem, you see, is that you can't remember what happened between the time you found yourself in front of this window and the time you woke up in our hospitable little holding cell. You fought me like a banshee, Miss Amery. You bit me hard enough to draw blood. Who knows what you could have done in your state of convenient amnesia?"
Panic needled her chest, making it hard to breathe. She couldn't have. She knew she couldn't. Angela had been a good acquaintance, if not a friend. She'd shared tea with her, shown her how to care for flowerbeds. She'd listened to the small woman's heart-wrenching sorrow when Tommy Lee had left, and shown her how to bury the pain. Not in a million years could she hurt her.
"I did not kill anyone."
The lieutenant reached forward to touch her cheek. She shivered despite the sun's heat beating down. She fought her impulse to lean into the warm flesh of his hand.
"The last murderer I dealt with had big, innocent eyes just like yours. She swore she hadn't killed either."
As if on cue, the cavalry arrived, giving Melinda an excuse not to answer. Her father's gold-trimmed Cadillac glided to the curb. With regal smoothness, he got out of his car and came toward her. A few more gray hairs salted his black hair since she'd last seen him at Christmas. A few more lines added distinction to his tanned face. But nothing else had changed. He still wore his charcoal French couture suit with a red rose on the lapel, and he still walked as if he owned the world. He'd always been able to solve all her problems. Maybe she could lean on him once more. Leaning on Lieutenant Sloan would prove too dangerous.
"Daddy!" She ran to her father and bear-hugged him. "I thought you were in New York."
He returned her hug, then pressed her away to arm's length. "I flew in this morning. I called you at work, but Dolores said you hadn't shown up. When you didn't answer your phone at home, I came to check on you. What's going on here? You look a mess."
Disappointment made her heart sink. She couldn't depend on her father either. She'd have to tell him about the monster, and she couldn't do that. Her father honored order, discipline, and temerity. He couldn't suffer fools or weakness, and in his eyes she'd often acted too weakly. She didn't want to add to his discontentment. She would have to handle the hard Lieutenant on her own.
"It's a long story. My neighbor was murdered last night, and Lieutenant Sloan, here, was asking me some questions."
Her father's gaze connected with the officer who offered him a crooked smile and an irreverent salute. "Grady Sloan. You're still wearing the blue."
"And proud of it."
When had they met? she wondered. No love seemed lost between them. If anything, the lieutenant's eyes had grown colder.
"Chief Mullins let you investigate a murder?" her father asked, making it sound as if this particular officer wasn't worthy of the title.
"Chief Mullins has taken ill. I'm the interim chief." The lieutenant's voice had taken on that quiet authoritative quality she'd first noticed about him.
Her father whistled. "How'd you get past Brassy Brasswell?"
"My good looks and charm. Same as you." He flashed his famous dimples, but the gesture held no warmth.
Her father laughed. "I'll be sure and look up the defendant if you manage to arrest one."
One of the lieutenant's eyebrows rose. "Then start with your daughter, Amery. She had opportunity, and she's trying to use amnesia as a defense. How many amnesia cases win?"
Her father didn't even blink. "Depends on the quality of the attorney."
"Or how low they're willing to go. You won't get me a second time."
Her father was enjoying himself tremendously. Her uneasiness grew with each verbal volley. The last thing she needed was her father and her accuser locking horns. On the other hand, it might make Lieutenant Sloan forget all about her.
"That, of course, is still to be seen." Her father wrapped one arm around her shoulder. "I certainly hope you haven't committed an error in procedure and badgered this poor witness without giving her a chance to call her attorney."
"All information was given on a strictly voluntary basis."
"If you know what's good for you, Sloan, you'll keep away from my daughter."
The Lieutenant seemed to swallow back a remark. He nodded in Melinda's direction. "I'll be back."
He strode back to his squad car, leaving her feeling as if she'd just survived a tropical storm.
"You're under no obligation to answer his questions. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes." But Lieutenant Sloan's presence seemed to scramble her otherwise sensible brain.
"If he bothers you again, call me. I'll take care of him." Her father squeezed her shoulder affectionately and led her back toward her house. "I have an even better idea. Why don't you come back to Fort Worth with me? Keep me company until these country cops take care of their little drama."
She needed the safety of her home. The cold, empty feel of her father's huge house would only depress her more. She needed to know she could take care of herself this time. "I can't, Daddy. I have too much to do at work."
"You don't need that job. I never liked the idea of you working with Dolores in the first place."
She shook her head without energy. "It's what I want to do. It makes me feel closer to Mom."
"I'm afraid you'll get hurt again. Besides, I need someone to play hostess for me while I'm in town. There's going to be such a big fuss made over the Campbell case. I need you with me."
Ever since he'd considered her old enough, her father had cajoled her into playing hostess for him. Plenty of women had wanted the title, but he'd insisted no one could fill the role as well as she. She'd hated every second of her official duties. They tended to make her feel ill at ease, inadequate—a feeling her father unwittingly reinforced with his couched, yet negative comments. Which had left her with no other option but to prove to him she could be a success in her own right.
"I'm good at what I do, Daddy. I won the American Business Catalog Association's Achievement of Excellence award for marketing last year."
He turned her toward him, holding both shoulders in his capable hands. "I don't like the idea of you being alone out here when there's a murderer on the loose. These cops down here aren't used to trouble. They can't protect you."
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm all grown up. I'm twenty-eight. I can take care of myself."
He looked down at her water-stained silk shell, her ripped skirt and her dirty legs. "I can see that." He hugged her close. "I'll take care of you."
"No, Daddy." She pushed him away firmly, feeling in control for the first time that day. "I want to stay here."
The sarcasm in his voice had hurt her more than she cared to admit. When would he realize her ambitions didn't aim for high-profile accomplishments like his? Her house, her garden, her catalog were enough for her. She didn't want fame and fortune.
She wanted peace.
* * *
It never rains, it pours, went the old axiom. But that cliché didn't come close to covering the deluge inside her. This storm was turning into a full-fledged tornado.
Melinda, fresh from a shower and a change of clothes, toweled her hair dry. The hot stream of water hadn't evaporated her roiling anger. Neither had the cold sting frozen it out. She loved her father. He was all the family she had left. But sometimes—almost every time they spent more than five minutes together—he infuriated her. He didn't mean to hurt her. He expected her to be as tough as he was. And she'd let him down.
Somehow, she always did.
At least this time she'd stood her ground and refused to be swayed by him. She was still home. He'd left. But
the air inside her house still reeked with the scent of his spicy cologne and the heaviness of his persuasion. She needed fresh air, sunshine, and space—lots of space.
She ran a comb through her hair and headed toward the park, carefully skirting Angela Petersen's home. Why the town council had designated this patch of land a park, Melinda would never understand. It consisted of a dip in the land between barren hills that had filled with water. The town had tried to grow grass, but the budget didn't allow for watering in the summer. Long ago burnt by the sun, what little grass remained was a crisp yellow. Three scraggly trees, growing on the edge of the pond, offered their thick, gnarled roots as nesting grounds for a family of ducks. An asphalt path circled the pond and two weathered benches stood on opposites shores.
A few mothers brought their toddlers to feed bread to the ducks; otherwise the park remained mostly unused. Melinda didn't mind. She liked its solitude.
By the time she sat down on the farthest bench, some of her calm returned. She watched the ducks swim in lazy circles on the water and let her mind drift.
For a moment she'd been attracted to Grady Sloan. The sure intensity he emanated seemed so stable compared to the emotions spewing inside her like springtime hail. She'd been tempted to bury herself in his arms and let him convince her everything would be all right. She'd wanted to talk to him, to tell him about the monster. She'd half hoped he'd offer to put on armor and fight the beast himself.
A foolish move.
Another moment of weakness.
Counting on anyone but herself would only lead to heartache and disappointment. Her previous knight-in-shining armor had proved a toad in disguise.
She turned her face to the sunshine and closed her eyes, gaining strength from the warm rays. She prayed the sun would shine for the rest of September. Three more weeks. It's all she asked for. Three more weeks. She'd get through them just fine.
Feeling better than she had since the last night's storm had caught her off guard, Melinda went home.
